


I Carry My Crucifix Under My Death List

by QueenOfNewOrleans22



Category: Mötley Crüe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Angels & Demons, Angst, First Meetings, Fluff, M/M, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-05
Updated: 2021-02-05
Packaged: 2021-03-16 20:33:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29213466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenOfNewOrleans22/pseuds/QueenOfNewOrleans22
Summary: As the story goes, a demon finds a fallen angel.
Relationships: Mick Mars/Nikki Sixx
Comments: 4
Kudos: 10





	I Carry My Crucifix Under My Death List

_He's the wolf screaming lonely in the night  
He's the blood stain on the stage  
He's the tear in your eye  
Been tempted by his lie_ _  
_

Shadows crept in through the night, long fingers and gaping teeth. Their eyes gleamed like jewels, and Mick, halfway through his second bottle of vodka and contemplating from where he'd get his third, frowned and looked up from the fuzzy television screen, where he'd been staring at the game show that'd been playing with no real enthusiasm. He sniffed, and there was a strong smell of sulfur and burnt flesh. Mick's frown turned into a scowl, and he downed the rest of his glass, feeling as it burned on the way down. 

To any other inhabitant of LA, the sound of screaming would've gone unnoticed, if not given a momentary note of concern before being filed away. In fact, Mick would've ignored it under ordinary circumstances, but as he sat there, staring out toward the distance with a distinct look of sharp curiosity and halfway concern in his black eyes, the burning flesh seemed to seep into his seedy little apartment. 

Mick sniffed again, and there was a tangy smell. It was blood, and Mick had half the mind to ignore it, and try to get as drunk as possible without actually having the ability to get drunk, but as he grabbed the neck of the bottle and upturned it over the glass, he couldn't rid the sudden itch of wonder from the back of his wandering mind. 

It was probably nothing, but Mick knew it wasn't just nothing. He knew from the depths of his chest, and the human instinct was unfamiliar but not entirely surprising. He sighed, and looked forlonely and regretfully at the clear liquid in his glass. Mick didn't want to move. He didn't want to get up and stare at the world that didn't welcome him. If the forbidden had happened, as suddenly and surprisingly as such a thing would be, Mick didn't want to be the one who picked up the broken pieces. 

' _Or feathers, per say.'_ Mick grunted and then jolted his head to move his hair away from his face, taking a small sip of his vodka, but the taste and previous fervor wasn't there, and now, Mick couldn't sit there and have his peace and quiet with the unknown gnawing on him like a hungry dog would at a bone. He really didn't want to go perform damage control, but then he could hear the distant sound of voices, harsh and unfamiliar, and Mick knew that he had to do something or else he would drive himself crazy. 

The moon was shining brightly, a single beacon in the dark night. Mick glanced at it as he shoved open his window and leaned through the gap, teeth bared and the wind whipping at his reddened face as he looked out toward the dark, damp streets. Mick leaned on the sill, narrowing his eyes as he stared out into the dim blackness. The voices were louder, and their tones were angry, accusatory. 

A knife glinted in the front light, unsheathed from the depths of a coat. The blade was sharp, bloodied. 

Mick groaned, exasperated at this point. He leaped onto the window sill, his dress shoes unsuitable for the slippery sill. To a bystander, Mick might've appeared to be a man who was about to end his life. Instead, he was going to end someone else's, and that would have to be enough for the darkness within his eternal soul. 

It could've been over quicker than it began. It should've, anyways. Mick was skilled, and the jagged ends of his claws were testament to that as he tipped the edge against a soft human neck and spilt blood onto the broken grey sidewalk below their feet. The human didn't have a chance to utter a scream, not that he was worthy of even that momentary oxygen. Mick saw terror in the human's eyes, though, as they came dangerously close, and he allowed himself to take a single inch of pleasure as he bared his teeth in a grin before he dropped the human like a sack of potatoes. 

The next human didn't see it coming. Just as well, in Mick's opinion, as he reached up and wrapped his arms around the human's throat, tightening his grip and crushing his windpipe before twisting. Fragile human bones broke under the pressure, and Mick dropped that human, too. 

One remained, eyes wide, dropping the gun that hed been holding, where it clattered against the ground. He made a strange gasping noise, tried to step backwards, and tumbled over his own feet, desperate to avoid the creature that stepping foward quickly, quietly, some would even say efficiently. 

Mick grabbed the remaining human by the collar of his shirt. Mick's claws ripped through the cloth, and their eyes met, terror meeting dull calmness. He saw a brief glance of pain as the human's skin met the edges of the claws. Mick didn't like the pleasure, as natural as it should've been, that was coursing through his body, and he wondered about the state that his soul had went into from the lack of substantial killing. 

"P - please, man." The human was young, terrified. He desperately grasped at the creature's hands, a small part of his mind marveling at how such a tiny man had morphed into a monstrous creature in the span of a few seconds. "I'm sorry." He glanced at the prone form on the ground, whose knife was still held aloft. "I'm sorry! Please don't let me die!" The human began to cry rather pitifully, tears dripping down his nose, shaking his head frantically. 

A momentary flicker of sorrow interrupted the pleasure. Mick stared at the human, and tilted his head. He looked deeply in thought. "Not a word." He whispered, his voice like a whisper from under the bed, like expired honey. Mick didn't bother with a threat, because his mere presence was enough. He knew that well and surely. 

The human sputtered. "Yes! Yeah! Whatever you say, man!" He nodded. 

Mick dropped the human, who collapsed in a pool of leather and limbs. He watched as desperation propelled the human to his feet and down the street, stumbling and falling but continuing to run, not daring to be stupid enough nor brave enough to look over his shoulder at the bloodied carnage that was to he found of the two men whom he'd once called his friends. 

A split second seemed like a long stretch of contemptuous silence. Mick felt disgusted and sorrowful, but not regretful. He looked at his nails, coated in blood that, in the bitterly cold night, was already beginning to freeze. He looked up and then down, reminded of the one reason why he was out there in the first place, instead of drowning his sorrows and memories in a clear bottle. 

The smell of blood mingled with burned flesh, and Mick didn't like that smell. It reminded him of home. He took a deep breath, and then examined the knife that was being held between the body on the floor and Mick. The letters on the blade shined brightly in the night. 

Faint humor bloomed in Mick's chest. "Dare I say, 'tis a bad night to fall." He said, and the words were unfamiliar on his tongue. Mick paused, and wondered if the creature even knew English. He hoped so. "Can you walk?" He asked, and the answer seemed strangely forbidden. 

Lips twisted, and the knife shivered. "Devil g sheep's zimiz." Once upon a time, the pitiful creature had been an Angel, beautiful and graceful and magnificent. Now, he was broken, with blood streaking his skin and the remains of his tattered coat clinging to his body, barely concealing his wings, now like broken tree branches with barely a single sign of the beautiful black feathers that'd once covered them.

Now, Mick thought, the fallen angel was beautiful and broken. "Fear not." He said.

The fallen Angel made a noise, thin and frightened, from the back of his throat. His eyes were burning like green fire, and blood dripped from the wounds on his back as he pushed himself backwards. The knife shook. The fallen Angel was scared, but he was angry, too. 

Dangerous, Mick knew. He tilted his head. "If I were to hurt you, would I have slaughtered those men?" He said in a soft voice, feeling as the last of his power disappeared, replacing him mortal once more. "Wouldn't I have just watched as they beat you, stole whatever belongings you possess?" Mick intended for his tone to be light, if only a tad bit introspective. 

For a moment, they only stared at each other. Mick sensed the unease, the fear, the anxiety and thick, wavering anger. His eyes glanced over the knife, knowing that it was the worst thing that was part of the situation. "What do you plan on doing?" He asked. 

"Devil." The creature said spitefully, practically spitting out the word. "Beast. Foul fiend." He suddenly looked up at the sky, and a flicker of terrified emotion went across his face, terror mingled with something else....sorrow? Yes, perhaps. The creature looked at the knife, and then at Mick again, as if unable to look away from either. 

And then the creature grimaced and pressed the knife against his throat, tilting his head until the knife could be pressed flush against his Adam's apple, which bobbed as he swallowed. He was sweating, Mick noticed. Seating and breathing hard, perhaps unused to such a motion after being gifted with the ability to not have to do such things. 

Mick watched. "Kill yourself, then." He said. "Admit defeat." Mick folded his hands.

The knife was shaking violently in the creature's unsteady, bloodied grip. It was a wonder that it hadn't broken skin yet. The creature's wings were folded tightly against his back, which did nothing against the feathers as they slowly fell, shivering in the wind. 

"Perhaps I am no better." The creature mumbled, and he lowered the knife, exmaining it closely. He trailed his hand over the inscription, and made a face, looking contemplative but not sad. 

"No." Mick said. "Perhaps not." He looked at the bodies, and then looked at the apartments around them. A prostitute, or perhaps just a lonely man on a lonely walk because no woman with self-preservation skills or half a brain who walk alone in the night in the corner of this city, would stumble upon them soon. Mick looked at the broken figure that was examining his knife, puddled in his coat. "I hardly think that now is the time to linger." He said. 

Those eyes, bound by fire and whittled by stone, flicked up. "Leave, then." The creature said, all bark and perhaps some bite left in his powerless body. There was blood on his face, and strands of his hair were stuck in the drying liquid. 

"No." Mick said firmly, with more stern undertone than he'd ever like to admit. 

They stared at each other, and the creature raised one of his eyebrows, drawing a shallow breath that made his chest shiver and one of his feathers drifted off. It looked oddly poetic, but Mick wasn't in the mood for damned poems. He'd lived a long life, and he'd deserved some peace, which wasn't exactly what he was getting at that particular moment. 

"I cannot leave you." Mick finally said, choosing to be the bigger of the two persons that were still alive amongst the whole bloodied mess. He crossed his arms. "So, I am bringing you back to my apartment, for you to heal and until we decide what to figure out for a more - er - _permenant_ and _suitable_ living space." 

The creature winced as he suddenly shifted. "I think not." He said indignantly. 

Mick would've smiled, if he wasn't so close to bashing his head against the wall for no reason than mere hatred for himself at this point. "What else are you going to do? If somebody finds you, then you will be deemed a freak of nature, subjected to tests, questions...even if you do manage to live without notice, you do not know the human world." He stepped foward. "I do, and I will clean your wounds and give you a version of safety." Mick continued, spurred by the silence. 

Even as stubborn as he was, the being who had once walked the Heavens understood what was being said, and he didn't like it, nor did he like the blazing pain in his body, particularly his back. "No dirty tricks." He said. 

"None." Mick wondered why he hadn't given up and just left the creature to die and rot already. He had nothing to gain in this. "Although, you seem more keen on slitting your neck than you do mine." He added with a soft, sly, humored little smile, one that suited his face quite well. 

The one who had fallen snarled, but then he paused, and seemed to think, as if reflecting on what had just happened. His wings rustled. "Don't try anything, Devil." The creature said sharply, and Mick got the insinuation that, if he did have any intentions of trying anything, that the knife would end up in his chest without the slightest warning, and that made Mick feel better than anything. He appreciated the ones in life who could make good on their promises. 

Mick walked foward. He held out his hand, and the creature hesitated, and then took it. The creature's skin was cold and Mick was startled, but pulled him up anyways. "What is your name?" Mick asked, although he doubted that the name would be given, anyways, not that he could blame that amount of privacy, or perhaps perseverence. 

"Sixx." The creature hissed, his teeth clenched tightly. 

"What a strange name for an Angel." Mick said curiously. "Or, rather, a fallen one." 

And then Mick paused. He frowned, deep in thought as Sixx pulled his hand away rather roughly. "Why did you fall?" Mick asked, and he suddenly felt the inhuman urge to know, more than anything else. 

Sixx didn't look like an angel; his eyes were too sharp, too clever. His hair was too dark. He looked like a mischievous incubus rather than any blond-haired cherub like all the other angels. "None of your business." Sixx snapped. 

If Mick had been given more time to inspect the curious creature before he would take him into his home, then he would've, but it wouldn't remain dark forever, and the blood that coated Six like a second skin would be more incriminating than the blood on Mick's nails, if only at that moment. 

Not to mention their appearances. Mick didn't care to be photographed like some sort of demented freak, and he didn't care to be experimented like one, too. 

"Alright, then." Mick agreed, not wanting to end up arguing amongst the bloodied carnage, watching as Sixx rose and stumbled to his feet. His wings fluttered, as if to help him up, but they were forced back down, and Sixx wrapped his tattered coat tighter around his slim body. 

The door to the building was never locked, a fact that Mick, if he wasn't so much more dangerous than whoever would creep into the building at night, would've been concerned about, but, in that moment, Mick was grateful that none of the other tenants had complained as he opened the door and stepped inside. Sixx hesitated, and then he followed. 

Thankfully, none of Mick's neighbors, including the nosy old woman with curlers in her hair who liked to peek their head out the door and sed what he was doing, seemed to be home, for which he was glad. Mick didn't want to make away with excuses about why he had a strange young man following him, and feared that they would suspect that Sixx was some kind of whore. 

But nobody looked, and they made it to Mick's third floor apartment without any incident. He grunted and rammed his shoulder into the door when it didn't open to his tentative hand, and a puff of dust came from the threshold. It was the closest thing to a home that Mick would ever have, and it, with its cockroaches and mold and dusty smell, was the best home sweet home that Mick ever could've asked for, and that wasn't much. 

Sixx stepped inside, eyes weary. He was still holding the knife, clutched tightly against his chest. "Strange." He mumbled, and Mick didn't ask what he was talking about. 

There was a first aid kit in the bathroom, and Mick walked in, quickly finding the red box underneath the sink. It felt suspiciously light, but Mick couldn't remember the last time he'd used it. "Why did you fall?" He asked again. 

No answer came, and Mick walked out into the dining room, frowning at Sixx, who was looking up at the light fixtures with a near fascination. The Encohian texts on his skin, black against tan, were already fading, disappearing into the skin covered by his clothes. Soon, it would be gone completely. 

"Why are you here?" Sixx asked. 

Mick tilted his head. "I didn't think that living in flames suited me." He replied softly. "The screams...they were too much. Now come, I will fix you up in the bathroom." Mick didn't want to remember the screams of the tortured souls, the one that they always said deserved it. He had gone far too long to remember now, and that was the cold truth. 

"Bath...room." Sixx repeated, looking away from the light fixtures. "This is very strange. So, very strange." He shook his head, looking almost exasperated, as if he didn't think that things could get much stranger. 

Not that Mick could blame him. Oh, how he could remember first arriving in the world of humans, how confused he'd been. But he'd gotten used to it, and Sixx would, too. 

The bathroom was cold, dark. The lights flickered and only one of the light bulbs bloomed to life. Mick sighed. "Sit on the bathtub." He said, gesturing to the bathtub with one hand while he opened the kit with the other. A silverfish jumped out from between two rolls of gauze and then skittered out, disappearing down the counter as quickly as it'd come. 

Mick grabbed the bottle of hydrogen peroxide, knowing that he wasn't entirely used to patching up injuries, but also knowing that he was the only one around who could do it. ' _Unless you go, and make that kid whose friends you killed do it.'_

A sharp laugh bubbled from Mick's throat, and he covered his mouth. "Don't bother questioning. It's not very funny." He said, although he doubted that Sixx would ask, anyways. Mick walked over, setting the kit down on the floor before he sat down on the bathtub behind Sixx, who tensed. 

The wounds were bloodied, jagged, trailing from the waistband of Sixx's pants and up toward his neck, disappearing behind his thick hair. They'd been done by a heavy, clumsy hand, hurried and rushed. Mick chewed on the inside of his cheek as he stared at Sixx's wings, once magnificent in their power, now torn and weak.

Another feather fell. "Why did they kick you out?" Mick repeated. "Why, Sixx, did you fall?" He couldn't help but think of the power within Sixx's blade, how he could easily kill Mick with one sharp movement, but Sixx didn't seem like he wanted to kill Mick. He seemed tired, as if the fight had sweeped from his broken body. 

Sixx's body was now mostly devoid of the Enochian scrawls that'd once stained his skin. Soon, he would be nothing more than a fallen Angel, a man who wasn't quite mortal, but not quite Angelic. He shut his eyes, and the blade fell from his slender fingers and onto the ground. 

They were one in the same, Mick knew. Two creatures who weren't a part of any race or any beings. He didn't dare say it though. He got the feeling that Sixx was like a stray cat, whose trust was nonexistent, who needed time to get used to somebody. 

"I sinned." Sixx whispered. 

Mick brushed aside Sixx's hair from his back, and the gesture was shockingly affectionate. Mick felt a strange connection to the beautiful creature who had admitted to sinning in mysterious ways. He wondered if Sixx felt the same. 

"As we do, Sixx." Mick said. "As we do." 

_Fallen angels, so fast to kill  
Thy kingdom come on the wild side  
Our Father, who ain't in Heaven  
Be Thy name on the wild side_


End file.
